Memories in Darkness Falling
by Salt-Washed Mirror
Summary: It is nine years after Batman Beyond. Chapter three is up, and I've chosen Barbara Gordon to be my narrator. Readers and reviewers will be greatly welcomed
1. Shadows on Years and Faces

A/N: This is my first fanfic of any kind, and I apologize for the poor quality of it. I consider it a vignette,   
perhaps a pointless vignette, but I enjoyed writing it. I was considering making it a collection of vignettes   
(that's why the titles are different), all relevant to the same basic plotline that is exhibited here, but I wasn't   
sure how the readers would enjoy my writing, or want to hear more of this sort of thing. So, once again, I   
apologize if I am doing injustices to any aspect of Batman Beyond. Please flame gently.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Batman Beyond; it is the exclusive property of KidsWB and probably some other   
company that I'm not aware of  
  
  
Shadows on Years and Faces  
  
The briefcase sat on my lap, and I tugged at my tie uncomfortably. I had never quite grown accustomed to   
wearing the entire full business attire. Then again, I was foolish enough to become a professor at such a   
young age. I could have just kicked back, relaxed a couple of years, let a little fun into my life. But, much   
as I like to claim it didn't, what happened hurt me pretty badly. Of course, that's to be expected, but still. I   
don't think he'd like to see me so let down over all of it. But it doesn't really matter, I guess. Having fun   
after everything he went through; it'd just seem sacrilege.  
  
I gazed about, at the familiar skyscrapers and the streets below. Familiar scenes were starting to pop up.   
Dana's favorite restaurant, the WaynePowers building, the mall, the dance club. His father's former home.   
The Jokerz hang out. Everything that had so greatly been a part of his life. And a part of mine. I was   
coming home again. But there was something that I had to do, first.  
  
The monorail jerked to a stop. The doors slid open, and I blankly stared through the steady stream of faces   
that flowed in both directions. He had gone out, night after night, to help these people. He had sacrificed   
his girlfriend, his school, his life to help them. And in the end, none of them cared. Those who did merely   
heartlessly interrogated his family, not to mention ripping deeply into the personal haggard past of his   
bitterly taciturn mentor. Working alongside of him had always been so much fun, but that was for me,   
from the comfort of my apartment with the accompaniment of my laptop. I wasn't the one putting my life   
on the line. I wonder what he thought he had achieved. I know he felt a responsibility, but still. Was it   
really worth his innocence, his family's security, his life?  
  
My eyes clapped onto a familiar face, and for a minute, I could feel my heart leap into my mouth. It always   
did whenever I saw that face, and I would wonder if these past nine years had all been some awful   
nightmare. But you can't really live your entire adult life thinking it was a nightmare. And anyway, those   
eyes were a steady brown, instead of that crystal clear ice blue. But other than that, the tall slender frame,   
the thin pale lips pressed together, and the knifelike locks of hair falling across his forehead made the youth   
before me look identical to the friend I once knew. He gave me a curt nod, which I returned, noticing at the   
same time that the grim expression he had since I last saw him had not improved; if anything, the lines   
were deepened. I quickly bowed my head before the tears could be seen, thinking to myself that he was so   
old, for someone just turned seventeen, so old, for someone I once served as a babysitter. The happier days   
from so long ago were now gone forever. The bitter young man before me was once the mischievous,   
frisky rascal that was both annoying and loveable. It didn't help that Matt McGinnis was a spitting clone of   
older his brother.  
  
I glanced at his pale, worn face as he sat down opposite of me, then dropped my line of sight to the flowers   
that rested on his lap. I felt tempted to ask if they were for a girl, but I had seen the vast changes in Matt in   
the years of his brother's death. No such frivolities for him now. I knew he was going to the same place I   
was.  
  
Sighing, I returned my attention to my twiddling thumbs. I couldn't blame him for that grim, harrowing   
expression that haunted his eyes and lined his face. How many kids in this world had both their father and   
brother die violent deaths, and witnessed attempted suicide by their mother, all in the eighth year of their   
life? Still, watching the boy I once knew, spiraling deeper and deeper into depression each time I saw him,   
it didn't really seem like this was the type of mood Terry had meant to cloud his little brother's future.   
Then again, Terry hadn't meant to cloud anyone's life. Not his brother's, not his mother's, not his   
girlfriend's, not Bruce Wayne's.  
  
Almost on cue, I stiffened as the news broadcast echoed that familiar name. "We have just received word   
that Bruce Wayne, the multi-millionaire industrialist who was discovered to be Batman almost ten years   
ago, was found dead this morning by unknown causes . . ."  
  
The usual bustle of the railcar went on as though nothing had happened. So this is what they think of   
Batman, I mused with a bitterness very much unlike my usual personality. After all he gave to them, after   
all Terry gave to them, they don't even care!  
  
Only one movement caught my eye. Matt had jerked his head upright, and was staring lividly at the screen   
in horror. His eyes had blanked, and his mouth hung half open. I watched him, and I knew what his   
thoughts were, for I struggled with the reminder of my own repressed nightmares. Both of us thought back   
to that harrowing day, this day nine years ago, and once again, I wished that there was some way I could   
protect the young man, only a boy, from the pain he was now reliving . . .  
  
  
A/N: umm… so what'd you think? In case you didn't figure it out, this was from Max Gibson's point of   
view. Also, I'm aware that many sources say that Matt is ten years old during Terry's reign as the Dark   
Knight, but I think of Matt as an eight-year-old and I was satisfied with that one source which agreed with   
me. Anyways, (don't criticize me for the use of the word, I know it's not real but I love it anyways) I'd   
like a small amount of feedback if it has potential for being continued. And please don't flame me if you   
have a strong desire to contradict. Thank you for your time and consideration.   



	2. Overcast Eyes of Clouding Dreams

Sometimes I find it hard to believe

A/N: Really sorry; I'm not that proud of this chapter; I'm failing all my classes so I'm not in quite the right frame of mind to produce a masterpiece. Still, I want to thank everyone for reviewing my first fic. Personal notes are at the end, so those of you who don't care can skip over it. There are probably a few small details in here that are technically a bit inaccurate; and sorry if this is a bit melodramatic. Don't over criticize please. Other than that, thank you for reading my story. Also, to eliminate confusion, I'll warn you that I switched viewpoints. I'll probably be doing that a lot throughout the story.

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Overcast Eyes of Clouding Dreams

Sometimes I find it hard to believe. I woke up that morning feeling happy. I cracked open an eyelid, and stared at the clock with its two hands pointing sky-high at the twelve, and felt ecstatic. The thoughts still resound, _Schway. Mom actually let me sleep in and miss school. Guess today's a day off._

It makes me sick, how overly joyful I was that morning. And the fact that I carried through with it, eagerly jumping out of bed and heading toward the TV; it's shameful. I keep trying to tell myself that I was just a kid, and that I didn't really know, but then I have to ask myself, _How superficial were you back then? Was a day off from school, a morning in front of the TV, all you really cared about? Is that why you never really got to know your brother as well as you should have?_

I really don't remember what I was looking for as I flipped through the channels. Probably nothing interesting, probably just some random thing that interested me. And I found it, all right. Probably the most interesting thing that I'll ever hear of. Not only interesting, but horrible and sickening and tragic. 

So seeing the familiar bat logo, I released my finger's pressure from the "up channel" button. It was a news program, but I could hardly care less. Films of my favorite childhood superhero had often been shown on such programs; footage of Batman was usually the only things that attracted me to the news. So I stopped, curious, wondering what new act of heroism the invincible entity had performed.

I don't know, this many years later, whether I had actually referred to him as "the invincible entity", or if that was just a fine note of irony that I had created as I became more bitter over his death. I do know that I idolized Batman, regarded him as some superhuman being that was simply above the rest of us. Someone untouchable, distant, mysterious.

I remember wondering why the clips they were showing were all clips that I'd seen before, that I'd recorded and watched a thousand times over. And then I saw him, saw my brother's face, torn and bleeding and twisted into horrible contortions, a crimson flood spreading across his cheek. That face hung at a crooked angle over the black suit was barely recognizable amidst the flashing lights, but it was a face that I'd seen and taunted every day. Against the black tatters of the mask, his face looked pale and small and fragile.

__

That's not my older brother! That can't be Terry! That's not Batman that's not Terry Terry isn't Batman Terry's not dead Batman's not dead this is all some awful trick! My head reeled, and I let out a long wailing scream. I closed my eyes, but I could still see his face, painted on the back of my eyelids, the blood dripping down and the mangled body lying in the street. I screamed again.

"MOMM!!! MOMMMMM!!!!!!!"

Crying, I ran to her room, my small legs straining with tension and panic, my arms outstretched toward the comfort of her embrace. She was sitting in her room, her face, smudged with tear-stains and makeup, buried in her hands. Her head raised at my approach, and she choked back a sob.

"Oh, Matt, Matt . . ."

"Mom, Terry, he's, I think he's, on the news, they said . . .." My voice faltered, and I whimpered, burying my face into her shoulder.

"I know, honey," she whispered, "I know, hush now . . .." We sat there for a long time, clutching each other, my pajamas becoming heavy with the weight of tears.

There's a lot that happened after that, a lot that I don't remember. What I do remember is a lot of crying, a lot of people clamoring with cameras and papers at our door, and a lot of my classmates asking me about Terry; just a sudden, overwhelming attention that seemed apathetic, even before the word had existed in vocabulary. 

There was a lot of missing school, too. I guess at some point I just broke down, and I couldn't take the attention much more. I'd run off in some opposite direction, hoping maybe that I'd look brave and without tears until I could get to an alley somewhere. And then I'd reach that alley and let my tears fall, ignoring the malicious shadows that lurked about, and just sobbing with loneliness and uncertainty and guilt and terror. And then I'd wondered what Terry would have and had frequently done in these alleys, to those shadows, something so terrible and courageous and inhuman and serious all at the same time.

Then there were times watching my mother in court, and listening to her bring accusation after heart-broken accusation upon Mr. Bruce Wayne. It was almost heart wrenching, both in regards to my mother, and the aging man. The little I had seen of Mr. Wayne had always terrified me. Even from the very beginning, when he offered Terry "a job", a half-bitter smile was on his face, almost sinister. Yet still, he had this commanding, awesome power about him, that always struck in me a jumbling of fear, curiosity, and respect. It had become apparent that he was the one who had turned my brother into the Dark Knight, that he himself was once this mysterious entity, and he had led my brother to his death. Still, I never lost that respect for him, for what he sacrificed. Oddly enough, sometimes I wonder if my brother was thrilled at sacrificing everything for Mr. Wayne's cause. 

That great man died today. In my eyes, not as great as my brother, perhaps, yet, this was the first Batman, the first protector of Gotham city. There's something about that so undeniably demands an amazing reverence. Still, my mother never agreed, and she wanted to have as much compensation for Terry's death as was possible. Her attempts were all futile. It's not that much different from my trying to now forget the overcast shadows, the ones accumulating since Terry's death, nine years ago.

I don't really know what happened as a result of all those trials and accusations; back then, I was too distraught, and feeling somewhat indifferent to what went on in the world around me. I still freeze up emotionally, most of the time. What I do know is that whatever had happened as a result was not what she had wanted.

It happened somewhere between a cloudy moment and an eternal time span afterward. Another day where I realized I had been allowed to sleep in on a school day. At least this time, I was less cheery, with less of a mind for my own entertainment.

Instead, I wandered into Mom's room. And there, I found her, eyes closed, arms spread out limply, her mouth hanging half-open. Her fingers looked as they had loosened their grip on something, and I peered about to see that it was a bottle with a Tylenol label, now entirely empty.

I didn't scream. The sickening knot in my stomach convulsed, and I turned toward the phone. Dialed not the police, but Max. A friend of Terry's; I had recalled her as a brilliant girl, she'd know what to do. As for myself, the entire world felt locked in my churning guts, and my mind was helpless to resist the twisting revolutions that it had entangled itself in. Shaking violently, I picked up the phone and dialed the only number I could remember.

Policemen, an ambulance with paramedics, and Max came, I suppose not long after. Clocks hadn't really been very important to me at that time. She was rapidly borne away on a stretcher. There was more repeated questioning, and in the confusion, I felt threatened, accused, as more and more of the questions seemed to be asking about Batman, about Terry and Mr. Wayne. I couldn't understand why they couldn't just leave me alone, and after a point in time, I screamed and sobbed with all the fury and anger that a distraught eight year old could muster. Eventually, a long time eventually, they left. Tired and distressed, I curled up among the warm bed sheets, and let my eyes fall shut in a heavy curtain of darkness.

I skipped school the next day, too. I was starting to get used to it. I put together my meager allowance, and took the bus where they had taken my mother. Once there, while waiting to be admitted to her room, I had taken the opportunity to watch the hands of the clock, the hour and thirty-three minutes, 5,680 seconds, ticked off one by one. Finally I was called to the counter, given a room number, and directed to proceed down the brilliant white, deathly still corridor to the left.

The room in which my mother had laid looked like something out of a World War II hospital barrack. There was no privacy, but instead, rows of stiffly positioned beds filled with patients. There was a musty, deathlike smell, and I found it difficult to believe that our financial troubles were such so that they would only give us a room this dismal. I found her bed, and stared at my mother, my comfort, lying pale and sullen with tubes protruding from her veins, nostrils, and mouths. I remember shuddering in horror, then feeling guilty at my childish reactions and bowing in shame. At the recollection, I shudder in horror again, this time at my immaturity, not at the sight.

"Mom, Mom," I had cried, choking. "You can't die, I need you. There wouldn't be anyone left if you died, don't leave me alone, please Mom, I need you now, more than ever, you've got to stay with me, you've got to . . .." A lot of sobbing, a lot of tears, my voice cracking all the while, ensued. I stayed there a long time, weeping miserably.

I don't know if what I said had an impact, but something made a difference. After a long time, four or five months maybe, she'd recuperated enough to be returned home. There was still that sense of sadness about her, but I became a little less worried, and it eased me to see that she wasn't quite as despairing anymore. Still, things never really improved.

I shrugged. _Ignore the fact that your trigonometry teacher told you today that you're so much better than your brother_, I thought. _Don't let the ignorance of others bother you._ I sighed, staring and the dark gray, rectangular slab before me, centered in an expanse of green lawn grass dotted with other rectangular stones. It said, simply, "Terry McGinnis, 2042-2059". It was really all we had money for. Commissioner Gordon had offered to erect a monument to our brother and his accomplishments, but I think my mother wanted to purge all thoughts of Terry being a hero and a killer. I can't blame her, really, even in my reverence for what he did, I found it almost found it disconcerting.

I laid down the flowers I had brought, and stared at the block that had clouded over my life. I wondered if Mr. Wayne was meeting Terry now, Terry who idolized him enough to risk his life for a hero's cause. I wondered if there might be another slab here someday, dedicated to the first of Terry's kind, the first of the Dark Knights. I shook my head. For all the enigmas that surrounded Mr. Wayne's life, the intrigue had died out for me. I'd find out when it was due time.

For now, I'd have to return home. My mother would be worried about me. As I left, Max put her hand on my shoulder, her eyes misting over and asking, _Are you going to be all right?_ I nodded sadly. It was all dying out into a dull ache now, the stabs of pain were less violent.

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A/N: That's the end of chapter 2. There's still more to it; if you want it to be continued.

Lane Navachi: Special thanks to you, being the first person ever to review any of my stories. And also for reminding me of the use of the word "schway".

Mr. E: Thank you very very much for putting my story down as a favorite; that was a pleasant surprise. Of course, thanks for the encouragement, as well.

Pinkangelsakura: I know that Terry isn't quite as cool as Eriol, so I thank you for taking the time and consideration to review my story. Sorry if this isn't that good; basketball and patting short people on the head is very draining on the energy sources. Especially since I don't take my sugar pills as regularly as you do.

Pikachumaniac: Well, you found me. I don't think I need a guardian angel; I'm fairly honest enough with myself as it is. TaKitties and BBMak and spitting fireballs. You really have a mind? Amazing. This unusual phenomenon must be looked into further. Keep writing Blood Relations. I don't care how many Jyoutos/Yamajyous you want to write. Chapter four? Ahem? I got this chapter up; you owe me one.

Arina: Thanks for the encouragement. I actually somewhat enjoy writing depressing stuff; it's nice to know that I captured the mood adequately.

Lady Destiny: Thank you for reviewing it, and the request to continue. It helps in regards to encouragement.

Rachael: That was an enthusiastic request for me to keep posting, and I was glad you enjoyed it and didn't think it was bad.

Malkavien: Another nice review; you sound impressed, which is a good thing for a writer to hear from a reader. I'm still not sure if Matt should become Batman, though. It is an interesting proposal that shouldn't be looked over too lightly, though.

Realtog: Yeah, I suppose Bat-people were never meant to be happy. Thanks for seeing things my way.

Also thanks to BeyondKnight and Etienne for the opinions which they emailed me. This all served as a great source of encouragement.

Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to review chapter 2. Thanks.


	3. Solid Curtains and Shades of Red

A/N: Again, apologies for waiting six months before publishing this third chapter. Besides the fact that my grades are dropping rapidly and that I've been suffering from writer's block (partially due to the fact that my English teacher hates my style), I was also hesitant to publish this due to the subject matter. Everyone was so eager to find out how the great Batman died. I wanted to heighten the tragedy by giving him a death that was not glorious, but a mere coincidence. Because Terry is careless on occasion, and accidents will always happen. Thus, please do not expect anything of this chapter. I'm sorry I could not bring myself to give Terry a more grandiose death scene.

I have considered writing an actual continuation to this story, as in what happens with the legend after the death of Bruce Wayne as well as Terry McGinnis. This means a story with an actual plot, which I frequently have difficulty with, and it also means putting up with my writing style some more too. If you'd like me to continue the tale, please say so in your review.

Disclaimer: If Batman Beyond belonged to me, its production would not have been halted after 52 episodes. Enough said.

**** Solid Curtains and Shades of Red 

He is gone, now.

And the legend is gone too.

But then again, the legend died nine years ago, with the death of the McGinnis boy.

Imagine that. Some kid just out of juvenile hall can invade Bruce's darkest, most deepest secrets, can steal the most treasured item of Bruce's life, and then suddenly, that kid has given meaning to the life of a dying old man.

And given meaning to my life, too.

I see death a lot in this business. I started seeing it when I was still young, still bright and athletic, and still in love with the mystery and romance of being a savior, hidden under the cloak of the night. And under his shadow, too, he who taught me everything that I ever knew, who taught me how to run, how to fight, how to watch, how to wait, how to find. And thus, I knew how to find, upon his death, what had happened to my mentor, my friend, my love. The slightest discoloration of the skin, the slack muscles, an expression that mixed peace, sorrow, weariness, relief. A lesser experienced person would have believed it as old age, perhaps even one such as myself with so many years in the business would make the mistake. But I gazed upon his face, I noted the shade of his skin and the way his face was set, and I knew, as I knew, before I analyzed the cup on the tableside and even before I read the letter, I knew, as I had known the secrets that had haunted him through these years, that it was not old age that killed him. 

I wonder if I blame Terry. I've blamed him for a lot of things before, for some things that he didn't do, some things that he did. But still, the kid always meant well.

That's the trouble with this business. Kids don't belong in it. Of course, I shouldn't be talking; I wasn't much older when I started. But still, I was little more than a shadow when I started out, in a way, tagging along behind the illustrious Batman and Robin. I wasn't out there, alone, and by myself. I mean, sure, Terry had Bruce on the computer, always watching him, but honestly, telecommunications will only go so far. At seventeen, Terry had a tough chore ahead of him, and very little to help him through it.

Tim Drake was even younger. And Bruce and I, and sometimes even Dick, would watch over Tim, and still, he suffered. He suffered grievously. And Bruce swore that he would never endanger another young partner. Yet Terry managed to find away to burst in upon his life, and I guess something in his bright-eyed, eager and headstrong manner reminded Bruce of a dream that was still possible, another person could still protect the city when he was gone.

Sometimes I wonder who had it worse, Tim or Terry. But no mentor should have to suffer the pain of outliving his pupil. Especially when he goes back on his word of never allowing harm to come to another of his companions. And, I guess seeing the death of Terry, after the psychological helplessness of Tim, after the emotional wounds of Dick and after my own pain and pride, I think that the dark stains upon his life overpowered him, and he chose to sink beneath their shadows.

Nine years is a long time to die, and he chose the slow way to do so. Perhaps he was half-heartedly hoping that another young man, bright-eyed, would enter his life, would stroll into his world, and would somehow redeem him. The poison he had taken, it was probably a weak one, but taken regularly, it had accumulated, and mixed with the proper other toxin, he had chosen this day to die, the anniversary of a day of death. But I don't know for sure, though. I spoke to him little in these past nine years, for he had become unnaturally recluse, even more so than he once was, speaking to no one for weeks on end. It was little help that the press had found his secret, had clamored at his gate, hounding him for interviews and appearances. I did what I could to help, but I succeeded in little more than learning how completely helpless I was in my own city. But this much I could do, I could tell the authorities that he had died of old age, that there was no need to perform a full chemical analysis or autopsy, I could arouse suspicion but save whatever was left of Bruce Wayne's soul. I had to, to the best of my abilities, do what I thought he would want, which was to die without people noting his loss, and to go quietly and be at peace with himself at last.

I was helpless too, the day when Terry died. Otherwise I would have stopped them, stopped them from crowding to tear the mask from his face. But my efforts were as futile as my wish that he had not fallen from the sky, that he had not perished under the roar of cars in the streets that night.

Nature sometimes plays about with the sort of dramatic settings that appeal to Shakespeare. As I look out the window now, transparent though my reflection floats upon it, I see the mist and the rain, sheets of the thin, needle-like crystals falling and dancing in mourning of a hero. It was a dark and stormy night when Terry died, too, only then, it was not just rain and mist but thunder and lightning as well. A dangerous night to be out, especially for a seventeen year-old deprived of sleep. And it wasn't even his fault entirely, it could have happened to anyone. Only coincidence said it would happen to him. 

Ironic isn't it, that for all his glory, for all his ability, Batman would die in an automobile accident. And without even having the consolation that it wasn't entirely his fault. But it was a rainy day, the roads were cold and slick, moisture seeping into the dust and turning it to a wet, frictionless clay. 

I was on the road that night, in a patrol car, and I was watching the skies, and I had noted the Batmobile speeding above me. No more than noted, for I had not thought anything out of the ordinary would happen.

And nearing an overpass, something happened. I've seen accidents before, but when I think about that night, I have to close my eyes and bite my lip to keep the tears from falling, and push away that bitter taste of salt in my mouth. They say that doctors should never have to operate on the people whom they love, but I'm Commissioner Gordon. I have to see everything that happens within my city.

Another car had come, careening off of the highway, through the railing. Without the magnetic propulsion of a road directly beneath it, the car could do little else but fall, arching away from the road before slamming the full force of its weight against the jet black vehicle speeding directly below it.

The Batmobile is designed to avoid such incidents, by the same magnetic propulsion that keeps cars on the roads, but it responds to the driver alone, and the night was late and the driver was young and tired. The Batmobile can withstand relative impact, but the metal it was made of had become badly dented, the force of the blow had sent it spinning madly in a wide turn, and under the weight of the car on top of it, the two masses began plummeting together to the street below.

And when I saw the slim black shape eject itself from the masses, I sensed the beginning of something terrible waiting to happen. I knew then that he had become confused, disoriented, and had begun to panic. The thunder was loud that night, and as his rockets fired and he shot upward, his wings silhouetted against the city lights, a jagged whip of cold blue tore downward, amidst the bleeding downpour of the midnight sky.

Below, the two hovercraft had fallen together, but not without warning, and around them, people were swerving, successfully avoiding the wreckage, if just barely. But with crackling blue sparks, another figure fell from the sky, a human shape, that startled those below, and as the cars scurried about like ants, the unexpected presence was enough to shatter the luck, and as Terry McGinnis, the second Batman fell, he crashed through a windshield with enough force to propel the vehicle forward, into a mass of metal, sparks and gears. When I examined the vehicles several days later, I found that the suit had withstood the blow. Enough so that it had carried the boy through the car, and into the engine. I remember the shards of metal that flew out that night, and the sudden blast of heat that wrenched sweat from my skin. 

No more than a minute could have passed by at that time, and eventually, the panic subsided, but the cars still came to a stop, inching to a halt as the blaze was gazed upon in solemn horror. Fire-fighting trucks were arriving, and I watched them as they watered out the flame, knowing that no person, no matter how well protected, could be capable of surviving a blast of that magnitude. I remember my voice quavering and my head spinning that night, as I woodenly gave out the proper protocols, and ordered them to "tend to the wounded". I remember not remembering at all, not hearing, not thinking, not knowing anything but a sense of sorrow, of loss, of regret. I had scene death before, but nothing struck me as this did.

The body of the Dark Knight was there, limp as a rag doll, even the mask was twisted in a grimace of pain and death. The outer covering had been ripped away, exposing the vast network of circuits beneath, and in some case, even flesh that was lacerated or burned. 

And all around me, people were crowding. Clamoring, "It's Batman! Take off the mask! Who is he? Let's find out!" And the news crews gathered around with their cameras and their bright lights, casting a kind of ghostly white shadow on the pitch-black uniform, a dizzying, glitzy brightness.

"Stay back! Let him be! Have you no respect for the dead?!" I remember crying that much out. But weakly, for upon that last word, my voice cracked, for I myself had admitted that much allowed, what I had known but dreaded to be true. And from behind, the crowds surged past me, pushing me away, and I was to weakened, to strained by the events of the night, to make threats with my gun while there cold and vicious hands tearing and clawing at the body, the uniform, and lastly, pulling the mask away.

I remember looking up as the crowd gasped in surprise, and I remembered that it was then that I had finally let the tears fall. For that was not the bold, hot-headed youth that I had so often scorned in the past, but it was a young man, uncertain, scared, but ever hopeful. And amidst my tears, I heard the news reporters chattering into their microphones, and I heard the policemen under me abandon their duties so that they could hurriedly identify the McGinnis kid. And I stood there for a long time, staring at the wreckage, watching as they pulled Terry McGinnis's body out of the twisted metal and the smoldering flames, and I watched my entire life flash before me, as if it was my life that had been lost. For my life had been a life of a legend, and that night, I stood there and watched the legend die.


End file.
